


All In

by MissScorp



Series: The Saga of Corbin and Bright [5]
Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst, Bad Things Happen Bingo, Drama, F/M, Fever, Gen, Good Parent Gil Arroyo, Hurt/Comfort, Implied wishes for death, Malcolm Bright Needs a Hug, Malcolm sucks as a patient
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:34:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23623204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissScorp/pseuds/MissScorp
Summary: Malcolm Bright is hard to deal with when he’s not sick. Give him a fever and he becomes downright impossible. Only a threat to leave keeps him, mostly, in bed.This is for my ninth Bad Things Happen Bingo square for the prompt, fever.
Series: The Saga of Corbin and Bright [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1928332
Kudos: 16
Collections: Bad Things Happen Bingo





	All In

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, all, and welcome! For those into series orders, this piece follows Love Is a Battlefield but can be read as a stand-alone.
> 
> This is for my ninth Bad Things Happen Bingo square for the prompt, fever.
> 
> Please, if you like this piece, favorite/kudo/bookmark it! Thanks for reading! Take care!

Fire licked at his insides.

Scorched his body from the outside.

Spread across his back, down his arms, up his legs, over his abdominal region.

It burned his face, hands, the balls of his feet.

Through the roar of the inferno charging through his blood, he pictured himself combusting in one huge ball of flame.

Maybe, if he got lucky — and he didn't imagine he would because it was _him_ —he'd emerge from the ashes as a new man.

One cleansed of all his sins.

And forgiven for all his wrongdoings.

He was dying.

There was no doubt about it.

Malcolm never thought of himself as an overly religious person. Jackie took him to church a few times when he was younger to give him an understanding of things like faith and religious freedom, but he never ascribed to any one doctrine or belief. Not because he didn't believe there wasn't something out there but more because going to church every week wasn't to his particular liking.

If praying would end his torment, though? Well, he was willing to give it a try. Anything to put an end to this conflagration trying to consume him.

Malcolm admitted — albeit to himself — he welcomed death.

He deserved to die after everything he had done. So many people had been hurt because of him.

His mom and Ainsley.

Gil and Jackie.

Eve and her sister.

Dani and JT.

Sorcha.

He hurt them all.

And was now a five foot seven inch ball of agony for it.

Even the tips of his hair pulsated with pain.

 _And that_ , Malcolm decided as he drew in a ragged breath and released it slowly, _is an entirely new experience._

Not one he particularly cared for.

God, he was hot.

So, so hot.

He fidgeted and made a small sound — part whimper and part unarticulated plea for whatever gods were listening to end his suffering — deep in his throat.

A cool hand came to rest against his cheek and a distorted voice murmured something he couldn't make out.

"S'hot."

A cool rag was laid across his forehead. Malcolm swore he could hear it sizzle as it came in contact with his feverish skin. _Someone should get an egg to see how long it'd take to fry_. He couldn't get the suggestion passed his dry, swollen tongue.

"How about an ice chip to suck on, kid?"

He barely heard Gil through the dull roar filling his ears.

"Melt."

"That's the point, city boy."

Not that it mattered as the hands of darkness Malcolm had been longing for yanked him down into the cool, dark abyss that waited.

...

The fire inside him continued to rage out of control. How long it was exactly, Malcolm didn't know. The few times he managed to work his way towards consciousness, it was to find himself surrounded by alternating stages of daytime and nighttime.

Once he woke to singing.

The words didn't make a bit of sense, but the warm cadence of her voice — _Sorcha's_ , he realized, pulse quickening — washed over him, flooded into him, brought desperately needed comfort to his mind and body.

Everything inside him quieted with the realization she was there.

He didn't know how or why and he didn't care.

She had come to him while he was on his deathbed.

It meant she still cared.

Not that he deserved it.

Malcolm tried to fix his blurry gaze on her face, hungry to see her warm brown eyes smiling down at him. Two weeks of being deprived even a few seconds with her had been an eternity.

He only had himself to blame for their separation, though.

Well, his choices and the situation with Sophie and Endicott.

Sorcha's soft hands stroked away the fire ravaging his body, soothed his multitude of aches and pains, and stemmed the inferno melting his brain.

"What are you singing?" Malcolm heard someone — Ainsley, he thought it was — ask. "It sounds familiar."

"It's an Irish prayer." Sorcha set a cool cloth across his violently cramping belly. "I've been saying it in Gaelic because it tends to soothe him when he's like this."

"Probably because he's trying to figure out what the words are in English."

"Best way to calm your brother is by giving him a puzzle to solve."

"Is that why you don't recite psychological theories to him?"

Sorcha hummed a laugh that skittered across his fractured nerves.

"If you want him to calm down..." Another cool rag was laid across his throbbing forehead. "Don't use anything that will agitate him, send him off on a tangent or interests him."

"You've experienced him in enough of his manic moments to know what works."

"He's a roller coaster ride." Fingers brushed his damp hair away from his sticky face. "One I can't seem to get off of no matter how much I try."

"You love him is why."

"That's never been in any doubt, Ains."

"Then why are you torturing him and yourself with this separation?"

"Because he has to make the moves this time."

Hearing that got Malcolm to lever open his feverish eyes. He took a moment to orient himself.

He was in his loft.

In his bed.

A look at the windows showed the sky outside was gray.

Rain ran down the glass in thick rivulets.

Part of him longed to feel it on his overheated flesh.

The other part shivered at the thought of those icy drops hitting his skin.

His belly pitched and rolled as the world spun.

"Sick..." he managed around the foam that surged into his mouth. "Gonna be sick."

A bucket materialized just as he rolled to his side and vomited up the nothing in his stomach.

"Should we take him to the hospital?"

"No!" He hadn't meant to snap it out that forcefully but he had no desire to take a trip to the hospital. "No hospital."

"Bro..."

"No." He flopped back onto the bed, breathing thin and raspy. "No hospital."

"Hush now." Sorcha's hand cupped his cheek, thumb tracing the ridge of his cheekbone. Gentle comfort and stalwart support. Underserved after his betrayal. "Sleep now," she crooned. "You'll feel better tomorrow."

"Promise me, Sorch."

"Sleep."

His hand latched onto hers.

The act of a pathetically desperate man.

"Stay."

"I'm not going anywhere." His hopes soared but were quickly dashed. "Not until you're better."

"Then you'll leave me again."

The words hurt to hear, much less say. They were the truth, however. Once he was over this illness, Sorcha would leave him.

That was the price he had to pay.

He deserved this punishment.

Same as he did all the others.

Only this one was because of his choices.

"Sleep."

"No." A whimper burst from him. "'Fraid to sleep."

She wasn't there to help keep his demons at bay.

" _It's alright_ ," Sorcha crooned, stroking her thumb across the back of his knuckles. " _Little darlin_ '..."

Malcolm found himself drifting off despite how hard he fought to remain awake.

And instead of dreaming of camping trips, a girl in a box and his father telling him they were the same, he dreamed about rolling hills of emerald green, rocky shores, and a boiling sea of blood.

...

When Malcolm next woke it was to Sunshine happily chirping, the smell of something that didn't kick his gag reflex in cooking, and something — or someone — lying half on top of him.

He lifted his head up enough to see chestnut hair fanned out across his chest. There was only one person he knew with hair that long and curly.

 _Sorcha_.

Relief poured through him at finding she hadn't left. Part of him had been terrified he'd awaken and find she wasn't there.

That she hadn't been there at all.

He lifted up a hand — _an unrestrained hand_ , he realized with more than a little surprise — and set it atop her head.

"Don't wake her, kid."

Malcolm turned his head and found Gil seated at the counter in a pair of ratty gray sweats, a white t-shirt, and a pair of socks. Gil lifted up a mug and took a long pull of whatever the drink was. _Coffee, most likely_ , he decided, taking in Gil's tousled hair and the thick bristles he hadn't shaved off.

"How long have I been out of it?"

He flinched at how hoarse he sounded.

"Four days." Gil placed the mug back down. "Been in and out of consciousness for the most part."

Malcolm didn't need to ask if any of those bouts of consciousness included hallucinations and him screaming at the top of his lungs.

He could already tell there had been a number of those moments.

"Feel up to some ginger ale?"

Malcolm's nose wrinkled. "No."

"Tea?"

He considered it as he lightly ran a hand over Sorcha's hair. "Maybe in a bit."

"There's chamomile when you're ready for it."

"Not peppermint?" A wry grin tugged at his lips. "I'm shocked."

"She spooned that into you while you were thrashing about." A tired smile creased Gil's lips. "That was between using it and other oils and herbs to bring down your fever."

Malcolm wasn't surprised.

"She developed a homeopathic approach to illnesses and injuries after Sean came home from Iraq."

"They worked, kid." Gil lifted his mug and took another drink. "Your fever broke last night."

"She didn't call Mandy or her mom?"

"They're self-isolating because of Covid-19." He indicated Sorcha with a nod. "She hasn't left your side since you text her to tell her you were sick."

Malcolm's brow knit. He didn't remember doing that.

Admittedly, he didn't remember _much_ from the last few days.

"I messaged her?"

"Apparently it was a bunch of nonsense that sent up huge red flags."

"I don't remember texting her."

"She showed me and your mother the messages you sent after we got here." A small twinkle sparkled in Gil's eyes. "You certainly like emojis when you're delirious."

The hand atop Sorcha's head stilled. "She called my mother?"

"Yes, she did."

"I didn't think she'd speak to her again after what happened with Eve."

"That's the power of love, Bright." Gil walked over and settled on the edge of the bed. "You can be madder than a hornet at someone but still there for them in a crisis."

"I hurt her, Gil." He almost choked on the words. "I hurt her because I..."

"Stop." Soft, but firm. "You need to say all this to her."

"I tried." He closed his eyes. A long blink. "I just ended up making things worse between us."

"She's here, Bright." Gil set a hand on his shoulder. "That's what counts."

"She's going to leave once I'm better."

"She might," Gil agreed with a nod. "If you let her."

"I can't force her to stay."

"No, you can't." Gil pushed to his feet. "But you do have the power to convince her to stay."

Malcolm wished he'd tell him how.

...

"I'm sick and tired of being in bed."

Petulant, whiny, a bit on the obstinate side but he didn't care. He had been stuck in this bed for ten days now.

Enough was enough.

He wanted to get up.

To do something.

 _Anything_.

"Tough," came Sorcha's no-nonsense reply. "You're running a low-grade fever and can barely make it to the bathroom without someone to help you."

Something Malcolm found extremely appalling. The fever left him weak as a newborn kitten. He'd have been in much worse shape if Sorcha hadn't come to take care of him, though.

There was only so much of his mother he could take when he wasn't sick. There he could skip out with the work excuse. Sick? He had no excuses and was virtually stuck with her hovering over him. Lecturing him about being sick.

"I can rest on the couch."

"Nope."

Malcolm hissed out an annoyed breath and slapped at the covers, upsetting Sunshine who chirped shrilly before fluttering over to join Sorcha in the kitchen. Even my bird sides with her, he groused, muscle ticking in his jaw.

Not that it surprised him that Sunshine did. Sorcha paid extra special attention to the little budgie, giving her treats, scritches, and extra playtime in the sink.

"I want to do something."

"My iPad is under the pillow." She reached over to turn on the sink. To Sunshine's delight. "I downloaded some new books for you to read."

"Don't wanna read."

"Play Sudoku then."

"Don't wanna." Again, petulant, but Malcolm didn't care. "I want to get up."

"Until that fever breaks," she said as she turned to place a small pan in the oven, "you're staying in that bed."

"I'm going to get up when you go take your daily swim." He folded his arms across his chest and stared at her. "Just you wait and see."

"You do and see what happens."

Pinpricks of alarm danced along Malcolm's spine at the promise in those words. There was only one thing in this world that Sorcha could be planning as retaliation: _call his mother_.

"You don't fight fair," he grumbled.

"All's fair in love and war."

"I want to get up."

"When you're no longer running a fever, you can." She pointed towards the pillow beside him. "Why don't you watch _Burn Notice_?"

"Cause I like watching it with you."

"Maybe I'll watch a few episodes after my swim. Okay?"

It was a peace-offering, and a good one, at that since it meant she'd be curled up next to him in bed. However, it didn't eliminate the fact that he wanted to get _out_ of bed.

Realizing he wouldn't win this particular war with her, Malcolm sunk lower into the covers and contented himself with glowering at her as she moved about the kitchen. His interest piqued when the scent of something baking wafted to him and made his mouth water but not in that _oh-hell-better-grab-a-bucket_ way.

"Are you baking blueberry muffins?"

"It's loaf cake, actually." Sorcha grabbed a potholder from the counter before turning towards the oven. "Thought it might tempt you into eating something today."

Doubtful, but he didn't tell her that. Sorcha already threatened to call his mother once. Refusing to eat guaranteed that phone call.

 _Though, it does smell good_ , he thought as she removed the pan from the oven and set it on the counter.

And he was hungry, he realized, his traitorous stomach rumbling.

...

Malcolm studied Sorcha as she studied the chessboard balanced across their legs.

As he did, a thought came to him.

One he vocalized because he wanted; needed the answer.

"You don't mind being quarantined with me, do you?"

Sorcha looked up, a frown feathering her brow, and her lips pursed from her intense concentration of the chessboard.

"I'm not happy at being required to shelter-in," she admitted with a small sigh. "But I'm not unhappy at being quarantined with you, no."

"I know things are..." He struggled to find the appropriate word to describe the situation between them. "Uh..."

"Complicated?" she offered with a slight smile. "Messy?"

"Yes." Malcolm lowered his gaze to the chessboard. "And I know that why things are so messy is my fault."

"Much as I'd love to let you shoulder all the blame for what happened, I can't." She reached for her bishop, paused. Indecision warred on her face. More about the wiseness of her impending move than about their conversation. "I had a hand in what happened, too."

"Sorch..."

"Let's just leave it alone, hm?" She released the bishop and studied the board more intently. "Neither of us needs the stress. Least of all you. You've only been fever free for one day."

"We have to talk about it," he insisted. "About us."

"There is no _us_ to talk about, Mal."

It hurt.

One quick jab to his heart.

Again, he reminded himself he caused this. He hurt her when he chose someone who hadn't been honest with him from the moment they met over her. The one person in his life outside Gil and Jackie who had been honest with him from the start.

"You said I needed to make the moves this time."

Her startled gaze flew up to his. "You heard what I said to Ainsley?"

"Yes." Malcolm pressed on before she could dismiss those words. As her face indicated she wanted to do. "You wouldn't have said them if you didn't mean them. If you didn't still have feelings for me."

"Of course, I still have feelings for you, you idiot. That's never been the problem."

"I'm the problem," he said. "I know that."

"You aren't the problem." Malcolm gave her a look. "Okay, fine, you technically _are_ the problem because you're the one who keeps sabotaging our happiness because of what your father did."

"I can't keep doing that."

"No shit, Sherlock."

Malcolm stretched his fingers towards hers.

Touching but not touching.

Waiting with baited breath to see if she'd take his offer or reject it.

Reject _him_.

Sorcha's fingers trembled but her hand remained on her thigh.

Daring him, he realized as his eyes met hers.

Wanting to see if he'd follow through.

If he'd take the first step.

His fingers quaked as he slid them atop hers.

It wasn't a huge step...

For him, though, it was a big one.

...

"Darling, it's so good to see you up and about," his mother gushed soon as she entered his loft. "You gave us all quite the scare."

"Sorry, Mother." Malcolm silently thanked whatever gods kept him unconscious for the majority of his feverish state. He struggled to deal with his mother when he was completely well. Sick? He didn't stand a chance. "Didn't exactly ask to get sick."

"Be that as it may," she said as she walked into the kitchen. "You really need someone here who can..."

"I had someone here." Malcolm kept his tone flat, emotionless. "Sorcha."

"I know, dear, and I'm sorry things didn't work out..."

"They didn't work out because _you_ interfered."

 _Like you always do_ , he added silently.

"Me?" Her face showed her confusion. "How did I interfere?"

"You called Eve. You pushed the phone at me."

"Darling, I only wanted you and Eve to talk. I am not the one who asked her to dinner. Nor did I give her a key to your loft." She aimed a look at him. "Something I'd have strongly advised against in hindsight."

"You're right." He lowered his gaze to the countertop, seeing but not seeing the polished marble. "You didn't ask Eve to come over for dinner. I did." Guilt turned the little bit of the toast and scrambled eggs he managed to swallow into a ball in his gut. "I chose to let her into my life and look what it cost me."

"Oh, darling, there's nothing wrong in that." His mother took the tea kettle from the stove and moved to the sink to fill it. "You clearly had unresolved feelings you needed to explore."

"Did I?"

He hadn't meant to say the words out loud. He learned a long time ago that the less he told his mother about his private life, the better.

He couldn't deny, however, the truth of the words.

There had been plenty of time the last few days for him to look back at what happened between him and Eve.

To see the signs he ignored.

Sorcha had been right when she said his ordeal with Watkins left him in the wrong place for a relationship. His thoughts, emotions had been all over the place. He hadn't been able to answer Eve when she asked him what he wanted because the answer hasn't been clear to him.

Not at that time.

There were so many things he needed to deal with. Things he avoided because it was easier to avoid than confront. Things kept happening, him stabbing his father, his mother being arrested, discovering Eve was the sister of the girl in the box, learning the girl's name was Sophie Saunders.

 _That my father let her go after she told him her unbelievable story_...

"What was that, darling?"

"Nothing." Malcolm watched her set the kettle on the stove. "Why are you here, Mother? People have been told to shelter-in because of Covid-19."

"And I have been self-isolating, dear," she assured him. "I have stayed home this entire week, in fact. I needed to come check on you, though."

"I'm fine. Okay," he amended at her doubtful look. "I'm moderately fine."

"You barely touched your breakfast." A frown formed between her eyes. Stark disapproval and concern. "You have to eat."

He was saved from replying by Sorcha coming down the stairs. Malcolm turned on his seat to watch her. She had exchanged her yoga pants and t-shirt for a pair of black dress slacks and a simple white blouse. His heart sank seeing the gym bag she carried in one hand.

"You're leaving."

"Gil called." She set the bag on the counter with her purse. "He needs help."

"A case?"

He couldn't quite mask the hope in his voice. He'd been cooped up in his loft for sixteen days, four of them burning from the inside out from a fever.

He needed a distraction.

Something to take his mind off things.

"It's not a homicide investigation, I'm afraid."

"And the city hasn't descended into chaos?" His mother removed the kettle from the stove when it started whistling. "I'm shocked."

"It has potential to turn violent, though." Malcolm studied Sorcha through narrowed eyes. Her eyes were tense, lips pursed, jaw set. A scan of her body showed it was taut as razor wire. "It's a family situation. Domestic violence that's escalated?"

"A cop threatening to eat his gun, actually." Sorcha tucked her hair, left free to cascade down her back, behind her ears. "Gil asked if I'd try and talk him into getting help."

"How terrible." His mother poured hot water into a mug. "Do you think you can convince the man to seek treatment?"

"I'm hoping I can but there's always the possibility for things to go wrong."

Her hands fidgeted. He reached for one but she slid it out of reach. Not because she didn't want him to touch her but because she feared falling to pieces if he did. Malcolm understood her anxiety. Cop suicides had been growing at an alarming rate. The number went up twenty-four percent in 2019 alone. That was a disconcerting number for someone who came from a family with multiple members in law enforcement.

"Sorch..."

"Gil will be here in a few minutes." She took his half-eaten plate to the sink. "There's soup left from last night you can heat up for lunch if you want it and some Jello."

He didn't need to ask her what flavor.

Sorcha only bought his favorite.

Because she understood his quirks.

Understood _him_.

"You're not coming back, are you?"

"Why, darling, whatever makes you think she won't be coming back?" His mother set the steaming mug in front of him. "She's only going to help Gil."

"I don't live here anymore is what he means." Sorcha tucked her hair behind her ears. "I moved out when he started seeing Eve."

His mother seemed surprised by the news.

"But I thought...?"

"That I'd continue to live here while he dated another woman?" Sorcha's tone was as brittle as her smile. "That hardly seems proper."

"Surely after what happened between them..."

"I'd what? Come crawling back?" Sorcha shook her head. "I did that for too many years, Jessica. Time to try something new."

"He needs someone to care for him." His mother waved a hand through the air. "You've seen what happens when he's left to his own devices."

"I'm his friend," Sorcha said quietly. "Not his care provider."

"Mother..." Malcolm warned when he saw the considering look on her face. "Don't."

"Don't what, darling?"

"Don't throw an insane amount of money at me to get me to be his care provider." Sorcha grabbed her purse and the gym bag. "I won't accept it."

She turned to leave but Malcolm stopped her with a soft, "Please, come back tonight?"

She sent a disgruntled look at him over her shoulder.

"I always planned to come back tonight, you danger prone dope."

"But..." He indicated the gym bag. "What about that bag?"

"It's Gil's."

His brow furrowed.

"It's not yours?" Hope soared despite his best effort to squelch it. "You're coming back?"

"I said I'd stay until you were better."

That hope he foolishly allowed himself to feel died with those words.

"So, once I'm better, you'll leave." His hands quaked. To hide the tremors, he folded them around the lazily steaming mug. "And you won't come back."

"Can we discuss this tonight, Mal?" Her eyes lifted to his. Silently pleading. "Please?"

Before Malcolm could answer, his door buzzer sounded.

"And there's the mood killer now." His mother grabbed her purse. She then smiled at Sorcha. "Well, we should be on our way, shouldn't we?"

And just like that Malcolm found himself sitting there with his rapidly spiraling thoughts and a softly chirping Sunshine.

...

Something stirred Malcolm from slumber.

For once, it wasn't with a horrified scream piercing the quiet, heart beating a hard tattoo against his ribcage, and an almost overwhelming desire to run from the images racing through his mind on a never-ending loop.

No, something else woke him. _A sound_ , he realized as he blinked open his eyes. Deep twilight filled the loft. Meaning the hour was still quite late. Or early depending on how one looks at it. Malcolm glanced around to try and find the sound that woke him.

It came again. Soft sniffles followed by a hiccup. Only one other person in the loft could be making such a sound.

 _But_... His brow furrowed. _Why would Sorcha be crying_?

Had the events from earlier finally caught up with her? Sorcha hadn't talked about what happened beyond that they got the cop to enter treatment.

A shuddering breath broke the quiet. Malcolm flicked off his restraints and sat up.

"Sorch?"

"Go back to sleep, Mal."

 _That's not happening_ , Malcolm decided as he swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood. He padded over to the couch and found Sorcha sitting in one corner, knees drawn into her chest and arms wrapped around them.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"You don't cry over nothing." He sat on the couch and set a hand on her knee. "Was it what happened today?"

"No."

"Your mom?"

"No, she's fine."

"Sean?"

"They're all fine," Sorcha assured him in a voice still thick from crying. "I talked to them via Skype last night."

"I know being away—"

"The date, Malcolm." A soft sigh accompanied the words. "What's the date?"

The date? Malcolm's brow creased. What did the date have to do with her crying in the middle of the night?

"It's..." his voice trailed off as realization dawned. "It's your dad's birthday today."

"Mhm." A sniffle. "It seems so stupid to get..."

"Don't minimize your feelings."

"That's what I always tell you." She lifted her head to look at him. Even in the faint light coming in through the windows he could see her eyes were red-rimmed and puffy. "Don't minimize your feelings. They're important and valid."

"And yours are," he said, tone firm. "He's your father. It's understandable you'd think of him on his birthday."

"Yeah, but..."

"No." He squeezed her knee. "Grieving is healthy, Sorch."

"Gil said the same thing."

"You called Gil?"

"Mhm." A small smile curved her lips. "He suggested I wake you."

"You should have."

"You needed your sleep."

Malcolm snorted. "Sleep issues, remember?"

"Yeah, that's why he suggested I wake you up. Payback for all the times you've woken me up."

Malcolm hummed a laugh as he patted her leg.

"Put your legs in my lap."

"Why?"

"Just do it."

She frowned at him but did as he asked. He knew how ticklish the bottom of her feet were so he rubbed the tops and her ankles, instead.

"You should have woke me." Red and blue lights cast eerie shadows. "You've been there for me hundreds of times. I want to be there for you."

"Mal.. you've got so much in your head..."

"Doesn't mean I can't be there for you." He stopped rubbing her feet. "I should have been there after he died and I wasn't. I'm sorry for that."

"Losing him hit us both hard." She brushed his arm with her fingers. "Then to lose Jackie? It just was more than either of us could take."

"A relationship only thrives if both people put in an equal amount of work." He resumed rubbing her feet. "You've been doing all the work until now."

"I didn't..."

"You said I needed to make the moves this time. I don't know what they are. I should, but I don't. I never learned them."

"That's why I made them." Her hand settled on his shoulder. "Because I understood why you couldn't."

"Your dad said to me once you were all in. I didn't understand what he meant until I was going through your music library and found a song by Lifehouse called _All In_."

"He said the lyrics fit us."

"They do." His eyes met hers. "I'm all in this time. Win or lose."

"Don't make me any promises, Mal."

"I'm all in, Sorch." He traced over the tattoo on her right foot. A dream catcher. Appropriate since she caught all his dreams. Good and bad. "I'm not losing you this time."

Sorcha looked like she was gonna say something but changed her mind.

"Let's watch _Harvey_ ," she suggested instead. "Or _Arsenic & Old Lace_."

"Let's watch them both."

"Okay."


End file.
